The Downton Games
by forbiddendreamer14
Summary: Each year, Circences, the sister country to Panem across the Atlantic Ocean, has participated in the Hunger Games. Read the prologue to find out what happens :
1. Chapter 1

Prologue

Once, the citizens of Circences lived happily in a place formerly called Britain. Yet, after the great wars, it became Circences, the powerful sister nation of Panem across the pond. The Capitol, ruled out of Buckingham Palace, was supported by 6 manor houses and villages. However, the working citizens of the manor houses attempted to take over the palace, thus resulting in the Dark Days. Yet, following it's sister country's example, it was decreed the each of the 6 manor houses are forced to contribute two boys and two girls of the working class in the manor and village- to the Hunger Games, an annual fight to the death between 24 tributes. Meant as a punishment for the manors, the Hunger Games is aired on live television. At the end remains one victor, who has earned his or her own privilege to move up, being legally considered an upper class citizen. These victors are examples to the lower classes of how to move up in society. Victory is the only escape from being a contender in the games; aside from being born into the upper classes, everyone else's name is put in the reaping.

There is only one twist; the Quarter Quell. Occurring every 25 years, a card is selected, adding an extra element of torture to the Quell. On the first Quell, weapons were not allowed. It was a brutal games, with all of Circences watching brutal hand-to-hand combat. On the second Quell, tributes were selected from a pool of downstairs children, instead of employees. One never knows what hidden horrors these games will bring.

There are six manors feeding tributes to these games. Oakley Court, Reinshaw Hall, Eastbury Manor, Whiteford House, Greystoke Castle, and Downton Abbey. 24 in, only 1 survives. May the odds be EVER in your favor.


	2. Chapter 2

We stand, huddled around the old rabbit-ear antenna set, placed strategically at the center of the oak table. We had to purchase out own speakers so we could all hear; nice of the upstairs to pitch in. Nice, while they all watch on their fancy HD sets, clothed in elaborate fabrics. Not like they care. Kind as they are, the Hunger Games are nothing to them- it's all really a game. We are horses lined up in the starting gate; it matters not what injuries we suffer on the track, so long as we preform well. We are nothing but a source of entertainment- a source of betting odds. Good for some simple fun on a Sunday afternoon.

They will never know the hardships we suffer. For many of us it's not the horrors we will face in the arena that are truly frightening. No, it's what we leave behind- family, friends, children. I glance at Daisy, whose fingers are tightly wound around the back of Mrs. Pattimore's arm chair. She lost her father to the Games when she was six months, barely even knew him. They say he made it down to the top 3, later to be killed. Sure, upstairs they provided comfort; they're extremely generous about providing for the aftermath. If they wanted to help they'd do something for us before. There's been talk going around; something about a rebellion in Panem, where the upper classes are giving into the pressure of the workers. Probably just a rumor made up by some drunkard living in a pub. Still...

My head jerks back up as applause pounds through out garage-sale quality speakers. The excitement's been building in the upper classes, in London, for this one moment. For us, it's more sorrow. The games, of course, are horrible any year, but especially during a Quarter Quell. Last Quell they forced children to compete, just like in Panem. I glance around the room- one of our women lost a son to that year. It's still a mystery who.

The palace guards lead President Rayne down the long steps of Buckingham Palace- the main building of London, the Capitol. She glares menacingly out at the crowd, as if to say "Oh, you'll never guess what I have in store for you lot this year."

A page boy comes out, holding the glass reliquary, housing the Quell cards. Each one is pre-written (so they say). No one down here bothers to listen to Rayne's speech. All we care about is the card, what horrors it holds. After what seems like an eternity, Rayne's gloved hand finally reaches in, extracting the card. She begins to read in her raspy voice:

_"Each Quarter Quell signifies that another 25 years have passed since our great war, when the manor houses rebelled against the great Capitol. Thus, each 25 years brings an extra twist to our games. On the first Quell no weapons were provided, showing that, without the great Capitol, the manors are weak, weaponless. The second Quell, children were reaped, bringing to light that children were brutally and uselessly killed during the great war, a fault of the manor houses. This Quell, to symbolize that even those who had everything rebelled- to punish the manors for their greediness, everyone, including those with greater monetary wealth, shall have his or her name entered in the reaping bowl."_

The television screen is black, with confused looks being exchanged. It isn't until we hear the commotion upstairs- the weeping, pushing back of chairs, other various sounds of sorrow- that I realize what has just happened.

No, it's not just us anymore. 4 tributes-2 boys, 2 girls- shall be reaped from both upstairs and downstairs combined.


	3. Chapter 3 the reaping

For a few moments, no one can speak. No one dares to move a muscle; we are too transfixed on the fancy flatscreen, brought all the way from London. After the silence comes commotion. Father stands up, bellowing about the injustices of society. Something about this being the result of unrest in Panem. Others argue back, stating that that was nothing more than a tabloid rumor. There are tears- a fight breaks out, as an antique vase crashes to the ground. Many of us just stare, seemingly petrified by the news.

Most of us weren't bred for fighting. Neither are the lower classes, but at least they are used to hard work. I've always secretly hated the Games. When we were little we had a nurse, Catherine. It was long before we knew the horrors of what lay behind that fancy black screen. She left one day, parting with a joyous celebration. She never returned. A few years later I finally understood. They say your childhood is over once you are able to be eligible for the reaping. On the contrary; it is over once you are old enough to discover the true happenings of the games.

As custom follows, the reaping starts tomorrow, the day after the Quarter Quell horror is chosen. The rules are as follow, and have been drilled into our heads since childhood.

4 tributes- 2 boys and 2 girls must be chosen.

Tributes are reaped from a pool of citizens (usually working class, but...) from 18 years old to 35 years.

Usually, a person's name is only entered once. However, to support a family, a person's name can be entered multiple times.

Every 5 times your name is entered, you are eligible for Tessarae- extra oil, grain, potato seeds, and 30 pounds.

There can be volunteers, but only in the select age group (and usually only from the working class).

There are no exceptions, unless explicitly stated by the Capitol.

It starts tomorrow. As we used to say- may the odds be ever in your favor. We never thought you would turn into us.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX X

_The Reaping_

So it's true. We stand there, slowly making our way to the large tent at the Grantham Arms field. Each of us in our Sunday best. It's odd to see everyone out of uniform. We part the road as a 6-horse carriage roars through. Although the rich will be in the reaping, it doesn't stop them from arriving in style. We silently scoff, as we watch Lady Mary make her way through the mud, lifting up her sequins as she slides.

A deafening roar fills my ears as I wait in the long cue for the women tributes. We will have our fingers pricked, proof that we attended. I see Daisy ahead in the line, tapping her foot as she nervously glances around. Poor thing- it'll be her first year in the reaping. Up there, clothed in a pale pink frock, light from too many washes, she seems small-frail even. I know she's not- anyone brave enough to stick out a yelling from Mrs. Pattimore must have some hidden courage. Still, I can't see her becoming a killer. She's just not that type.

I see someone waving at me- Ethel, I think. She, on the other hand, could stand a chance of being victor. She's not cruel, but she once told me she's stop at nothing to be on top. Poor thing, always blathering about moving up in the world. She hugs her boy-Charlie, I think, goodbye before handing the screaming baby over to Mrs. Hughes. Still, I pray she isn't chosen. Now it's not about moving up- her fight would come from the chance to see her child again- a very slim chance if she is reaped. She straightens out her wrinkled dress, waiting in line.

"Give me your hand," a voice says.

I feel the needle sink in, as my calloused hand is rubbed against the parchment. I look over once more, seeing Daisy wince as the needle sinks in.

I beckon her over, trying to call to her before they separate us by age. She waves, and I try to signal. My voice is drowned out by the roar of the crowd. I've lost her.

Lady Rosamund steps out on stage. She's become a sort of joke with us servants. Just like the rest of the rich, this is truly a game to her. We are her mannequins, the ones she can spoil, dress up, perfect before we are sent off to battle.

The Earl of Grantham is now on the small stage, going on about the nature of the games. Anyone can see his heart's not in it- not with three daughters and a nephew whose names are entered in the reaping. He and Lady Cora take their seats at the edge of the stage with-

"John Bates?"

My heart begins to pound as the whispers circulate through the crowd. Yes, he holds a high up position, but not high enough to be invited onto the reaping stage.

Ethel catches my eye, sidling over to where I stand.

"Where are the mentors," she mouths.

Mentors- past victors, supposed to help us in the arena, help us get sponsors. It used to be a Mr. Notredomme, but there's been rumors that he'd passed. Downton Abbey is not known for it's victors- that is what other manors, like Reinshaw Hall are for. They hold the most vicious tributes- they win almost every year. They are strong, either from heavy manual labor, or are secretly trained for the games. John Bates was not a victor- he hadn't originated from Downton Abbey.

Still, there's no time to think, not anymore, since Lady Rosamund is reaching her hand into the globe, holding all those fatal paper slips. My name is in there multiple times- to help your family, you can choose to have your name entered multiple times. I know Ethel's in there about 35 times, and I'm in there about 20 times. It could very well be me. She grabs a slip of paper, slowly unfolding it. I shut my eyes as she reads:

"Daisy Mason."

My eyes fly open. Daisy, DAISY? How the hell is that even possible? She was only in there once. She's an orphan after all, living on a steady salary, being provided for by William's father.

I look over, watching in dumbfounded silence as she slowly makes her way up to the platform, swiping tears from her eyes. I try not to cry, but how can I let this happen? She's like my sister, and she's my best friend. Had so much to live for. If I could do anything to stop this, I would. But there's nothing, nothing except...It's a crazy idea, I know, but I silently weigh the consequences. She's almost to the stage, stumbling on her small heels. The crowd is silent as my voice breaks.

"Daisy, Daisy, no."

I feel hundreds of eyes on me. I shut my own eyes once more, stepping out of the crowd.

"I-I volunteer as tribute."

Daisy turns, screaming. I push back the guards as she runs to me. We cling onto each other, choking back sobs.

"No, you can't. They chose me, i-it's fate."

I stroke her hair. I'll have to be firm.

"Daisy. Daisy, listen to me. Ignore your superstitions. These past couple months have been hell-for the both of us. I'm just giving you a bit more time-I-I'm doing this because I love you."

She clings to me harder.

"Please don't go, please do-"

I push her back as I walk to the stage.2

Lady Rosamund grasps my hand, grinning.

"It's been so long since we've had a volunteer," she says, "Tell me, dear, what is your name?

I barely choke it out, whispering it to her instead. She smiles, nodding.

"Very well then. Let's have a warm welcome for Anna Smith, the volunteer tribute of Downton Abbey."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The crowd's in shock. Daisy-and Anna. I look over at my sisters. We're all thinking the same thing-how can this be happening, especially to Anna. Or even worse- what if we are reaped and have to fight against her. She's like our fourth sister, and our confidant.

She holds our deepest secrets, such as my failed elopement with Mr. Branson. I look over at him, as he shoots me a quick smile. I see Father looking my way, and I quickly look down. Yes, he knows. He probably hopes to see one of us reaped. It would be a quick, effective way to crush our romance.

Rosamund's hand is in the bowl again, fishing for another slip. I want to run, to hide. I hate these games. I'd thought the war would have changed us- we finally experienced true horror and violence for ourselves. I'd thought that was enough to stop the games. It's like they say- everything's different on screen.

She's picked the slip, but instead of reading it, she seems to choke, looking horrified at the name on the slip. She catches her breath, stepping back some. A stormy expression crosses her face as she feebly reads the name:

"_XXXXXXXXXCrawley."_

The crowd seems confused, but I realize what's going on. It's one of us. One of us three is the other tribute. Mary looks horrified, her eyes blazing with anger. Edith stands there placidly, her mouth pursed tightly.

"S-Sybil Crawley," Rosamund barks, now having caught her breath.

What the hell. That's me. I'm in a trance as I make my way to the stage. There's a dull roar in my ears as people's faces swim in and out of my view. I hear a voice-Branson? There are screams, the roar of the crowd, and someone else is grabbing me, holding me tight. What's happened?

Rosamund's onstage as the crowd roars.

"Another volunteer?" she asks, "Wow, what a year!"

My head spins around. Branson? He couldn't have volunteered. I see him in the back, nursing a bloody nose as 5 guards pin him down, pushing him and the rest of the crowd back.

Mary? Edith? Both of them may have, but I can't imagine Mary would give up so much. I realize.

"No!" I squeak, but it's already too late. Of course- she thought she had nothing to live for. Supported me, wanted me to find true love. Said if she couldn't, I'd be the one she wanted to live happily ever after. She stares out at the crowd, eyes burning in silent fury.

Rosamund's raising their hands.

"Anna Smith and Edith Crawley- the female tributes of Downton Abbey."

I can't breathe. I can't let Edith go. It's a death march, for sure. I'm a mess, sobbing in Mary's arms as she does the same for me. Father's staring at the ground, his shoulders shaking.

I wince as Rosamund's hand burrows into the mens bowl.

"Thomas Barrow."

I hear the crowd catch their breath. I know what they're thinking: might we have a possible victor?

None of us know if he has the physical skill to become a victor, but tributes have won by pure wit before. It's his sneaky demeanor and seemingly flawless ability to crush anyone in his way that makes him a contender. I watch as he slowly makes his way up to the platform, smiling a menacing smile.

One more. I'd almost forgotten, but I'm sobbing more. With Thomas in the game, Edith and Anna have even less of a chance.

Rosamund's hand is in the bowl once more.

She reads the name, and even Mary gives a small gasp, nudging me. Father looks up, his eyes locked on mine.

He's parting the crowd, face bloody, while he glares at the crowd. When he sees me, his eyes soften.

It's becoming blurry by now, but I'm here long enough to hear Rosamund announce:

"I give you Anna Smith, Edith Crawley, Thomas Barrow, and Tom Branson. The tributes of Downton Abbey, North Riding of Yorkshire."


End file.
